The Road Less Travelled
by Cid62
Summary: Hermione Granger is having strange dreams during the summer after 6th year. Who is her mysterious nighttime visitor, and how will he affect the Trio's upcoming quest? HGLM
1. Chapter 1

Here's a little HG/LM story to tide me (and possibly you, dear readers) over until DH is released. I hope you all enjoy it. It's my first foray into the possibilities of this pairing. There will be a bit of crossover from my 2003 fic trilogy, only 1/3 of which is available on at this time. It's not HBP-compliant (if that sort of thing matters to you), but I will be borrowing some of my own characters and characterizations…most of which should be rather self-explanatory.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: Attention, all fanfic personnel! You should all be aware that I'm not J.K. Rowling and don't own any of these characters. That is all!

THE ROAD LESS TRAVELLED

Chapter 1 – Perchance to Dream

Hermione Granger was having disquieting dreams.

This was not surprising; as the Wizarding world was currently in turmoil, and she and Ron had promised to help their best friend, Harry Potter, find the remainder of Voldemort's Horcruxes (or was it more properly Horcruces, or Horcruxen, she wondered), so that the Dark Lord could possibly be destroyed. Then, maybe, if all went well, they'd get back to school where there would be NEWTs to worry about. Before that, though, they were all going to the Burrow for Bill and Fleur's wedding, which would doubtless be interesting, as Harry had broken things off with Ginny just before they'd left school, and likely she and Ron would be running interference between the two. Oh, and then there was the sort-of-relationship that she and Ron were starting to have, even though the young wizard in question had yet to write her a single owl since she'd returned home.

Frankly, Hermione thought, as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, it was a wonder that she actually managed to get any rest these days.

Reaching toward her nightstand, she grabbed the leather-bound blank notebook that she'd been using as a dream diary. _"That old fraud, Trelawney, would be proud if she could see this…of course, I'll never show it to anyone…" _mused Hermione, as she took up her pen to record the latest nighttime sojourn.

The dream was part of a cycle, a recurring scenario that was as confusing as it was intriguing. A man, whose face she couldn't see, promised her a wonderful, fairy-tale drudgery-free life, which nonetheless included lots of knowledge and learning. Sometimes, she'd dance with the man, in a room with indistinct furnishings, a pale, high moon shining through the large, archaic-looking window. Other times, she'd see herself in a mirror, wearing baroquely overdone clothes, her hair arranged in the manner she'd had it for that long-ago Yule Ball, when all she'd really had to worry about was whether Viktor would get her back to the Gryffindor dorm before the Sleekeazy's hair potion dried out.

And sometimes there was more. Hermione blushed as she remembered what had happened in the previous night's dream.

Quite honestly, the whole thing seemed rather more suited to Lavender Brown, who was a voracious reader of lurid novels with titles like _Wizard of her Desires_, featuring empty-headed blonde witches wearing low-cut dress robes, being embraced by impossibly muscular wizards, all of whom seemed to have long flowing hair and missing shirts. Although she and Lavender had been romantic rivals for Ron's affections last term, by the time the Gryffindor sixth-year girls had packed up their trunks after Dumbledore's funeral, apparently Lav had moved on and set her sights on a very promising fifth-year Ravenclaw. Thus, during the course of a very teary good-bye session, she'd lent Hermione some books to read over break. "You need to branch out from schoolwork once in a while!" she said, in a slightly judgemental way. Wanting to preserve the peace, Hermione had dutifully stashed the novels in her trunk, thanked Lavender, and promised to read them. So far, though, she'd only made it through a half of one treacly tome—could that account for weeks of nightly elaboration on a fairly repetitive theme?

Naturally, using her Arithmancy skills, Hermione had attempted to analyze the dreams, but the sums made no sense and the equations wouldn't balance. One night, in sheer desperation, she'd actually turned to a book from Trelawney's class on dream interpretation, but it was as useful as the teacher who'd recommended it.

Hermione's mother, Grace, looked up from the table as her daughter walked in the kitchen doorway, obviously intent on reaching the teapot as soon as possible. By mutual agreement, she and her husband John had taken time off (on alternating weeks) from their dental practice to stay at home with Hermione until she was due at the Weasleys' for Bill and Fleur's wedding—in about two weeks.

"Did you sleep well, dear?"

"Er…yes, Mum," Hermione answered, attempting to wipe all traces of dream-confusion from her face, as she got down her favorite mug from the cupboard. Crookshanks wound around her ankles and purred. It was very difficult to reconcile the normality of her life here in the suburbs with her dream-life…or, for that matter, her life in the wizarding world. It was for this reason that she'd always relished the summer vacations, feeling that they grounded her in reality. Who knew if she'd spend the rest of her life using magic in her career? If He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named **was** successfully killed, there would likely be much less of an urgent need for Aurors. There was still plenty of time to go to university, and get an advanced Muggle degree, after all, although she wasn't entirely sure if her credits at Hogwarts would transfer to Oxford or Cambridge.

"Well, I thought perhaps you'd want to go shopping today for wedding clothes. I know you'll want a different sort of dress, of course, but we could look at shoes and handbags," said Grace.

Neither she nor John had liked what their daughter had told them about the war, or this Dark Lord character, or how that polite little boy with the glasses, Harry, (who likely was not so little now, because boys grew so quickly, you know) was apparently in mortal danger from him and his followers. It all sounded so lurid and unreal, like something out of a bad American film, but she'd seen the witches and wizards with her own eyes, at the train station, and at that odd hidden shopping district, where they'd gone to a bank run by goblins and a pub that looked like it belonged in a museum.

Further, neither John nor Grace was sure where Hermione's magical talents had come from. When Grace was young, her mum had told her funny stories about a batty old great-aunt from Wiltshire who'd lived in a cottage full of cats and mostly kept to herself. Perhaps she'd been a witch. It was a shame that the old family photographs didn't include any of her. Grace had, in fact, completely forgotten about her distant relation until the morning, six years ago, that the great barn-owl, two letters clamped firmly in its beak, had tapped on the window while she and John were having breakfast and discussing a root-canal procedure that he'd be performing later that day.

"Oh, yes, please!" Hermione said. Anything to get out of the house and away from the dream diary, which was getting fuller and fuller of writing every day.


	2. Chapter 2

OK, for all those who asked, here's the second chapter, in which we DO get to see Lucius at last. And for those who are wondering, and have seen the movie version of "Prisoner of Azkaban," the would-be executioner of Buckbeak who's portrayed in that film (drooling, and wearing a hood) is NOT how I picture Walden Macnair. In the book, he's "tall and strapping, with a thin black moustache," so I'm sticking with canon, here, folks!

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: Attention, all fanfic personnel! You should all be aware that I'm not J.K. Rowling and don't own any of these characters. That is all!

THE ROAD LESS TRAVELLED

Chapter 2 – In the Belly of the Beast

Azkaban Prison was cold, drafty, damp, foul-smelling, and generally unfit for human habitation, or so Lucius Malfoy thought, for at least the thousandth time that day. He was sitting on the stone floor on top of his wadded, filthy blanket, stacking straw in a pile that roughly approximated one of the many towers of Malfoy Manor…not being sure if he'd ever see the place again, he figured even a straw version of it might make his melancholy lift.

It wasn't working. Even without the constant presence of the dementors—who had mysteriously disappeared after he and the others had arrived here—the place was still depressing. He ran his fingers through his filthy hair, which had fallen, again, out of the equally filthy black hair tie he'd donned that morning, and tried to figure out what the annoying tapping noise he was just starting to notice was, as it was distracting him from his straw-work.

"Walden!" he finally shouted…or tried to, as his throat was perpetually dry these days. A bucket of water, of dubious cleanliness, was delivered to their cell twice a week. He and the other wizard sharing his cell had figured out a rationing schedule that wasn't adequate, but prevented both from thirsting to death.

"Aye," Walden Macnair grunted from his bunk.

"What in blazes are you doing, making all that noise! Stop it at once!" Somehow, Lucius still managed to sound imperious, even though his throne was now a pile of straw and his royal raiments were striped rags.

"Nay," came Walden's reply, and the tapping continued. Looking up, Lucius saw that Walden was tossing a pebble repeatedly against one of the impossibly thick stone walls of the cell.

"Well, that ought to get us out of here in about a thousand years, then. Keep it up, if you wish." Lucius stood up and walked over to Walden's side of the cell.

"Go away, laddie, I dinna want to talk wi'ye," Walden said, tossing the pebble so fiercely that it broke into two small pieces.

"Isn't it simply dreadful that we can't always get what we want?" Lucius sat down on the stone shelf that served as Walden's bunk. "I'm rather bored and you're the only one here to speak with."

Walden, who'd been slumped over in the corner, sat up. Not for the first time, Lucius was taken aback at the sheer size of the former executioner. Perhaps he'd made a mistake…so he slowly slid himself toward the edge of the bunk, but was stopped by a huge hand on the collar of his prison uniform.

"Ye wanted tae talk. What about, then," Walden growled, as he slammed Lucius onto his back with ridiculous ease. "How about tellin' me why you were daft enough to go to the Ministry in the first place? How about lettin' me in on when ye think we're gettin' out of this foul place? I was hopin' to see me wife again before I die, ye know? Remember her, the one ye couldn't keep yer sodding hands off?" By the last bit of his rant, Walden had moved his hand round so that he was gripping Lucius' throat, and had crouched over the other man, his lips close to his ear.

"We've…already….talked about…those things, Walden," stammered Lucius, attempting to escape Walden's grip. "Please…get off me…you stink…and I'm sure…I'm worse than you," he quickly added, not wanting to offend any more than he already had.

"The one true thing ye've ever said," and Macnair backed away, lifting Lucius up, then letting him drop to the bunk's intractable surface.

"And…your wife…she…we were all at the Revels…you were there too," Lucius panted, "…it wasn't personal…."

"Dinna talk about that!" Walden shouted, a dangerous, murderous glint in his eye. "Ever."

"Very well," Lucius began, as he regained a slight bit of his composure. "Er, that's not what I wanted to discuss with you, at any rate." He moved over on the bunk so that he was as far away from the other man as possible. "What I wanted to discuss was actually on your little list, though."

Walden snorted. "What, ye're plannin' on packin' yer trunks and leavin' on holiday tomorrow, and ye want me tae come with ye? I'm afraid me social calendar is a wee bit full an' I must regretfully decline."

Lucius attempted, unsuccessfully, to not raise his eyebrows at this statement. For years, he'd been underestimating his…well, was "friend" the right word for Walden? Perhaps "associate" was more appropriate. Certainly, they were peers—they were both purebloods, after all. And they were both from old, respectable families, even though Lucius had his doubts about anything having to do with Scotland. Their names had both been down for Hogwarts since their birth, and he and Walden had gone to school together, and both had immediately sorted Slytherin. Both had joined Voldemort right after school, and for years after the Dark Lord's first defeat, Walden had attended certain soirees at Malfoy Manor (the aforementioned "Revels") for the still-loyal Death Eaters who missed the old, debaucherous days. Lucius actually kept himself sane by thinking of the particular entertainments at those parties…at which he'd seen rather more of Walden than he'd seen within the confines of the cell…but that was neither here nor there currently, was it?

"Sad to say, I'm afraid that wasn't my plan, old chap," Lucius said, falling into his old aristo patterns of speech without thinking. "I haven't any trunks, you see. But I was indeed planning on leaving, and I thought you might be interested in knowing how I thought it best to accomplish that." He smirked, wondering what Walden would make of that.

Walden sighed. "Ye're planning tae pay someone off, or lie? Ye havenae Galleons in here, Lucius. And no one's come to see us but the guards, and they doona care."

"Yes, yes, I know I haven't any Galleons, you needn't remind me of that." The last few precious Galleons that he'd had had gone for extra food and a shared cell, to a particularly desperate-looking MLE officer, just before they'd been carted to Azkaban. Not for the last time Lucius wished he'd bribed the guard for a change of uniform. "This has nothing to do with my money…yet."

"I suppose ye'll tell me anyway, so go on," Walden said, looking rather bored.

This wasn't the way Lucius had hoped the conversation would go at all. He realized, of course, that he hadn't been getting his way since that fateful night at the Department of Mysteries—foiled by underage wizards, indeed!—but to have a fellow Knight of Walburga act as if he was to be trifled with…well. That was almost too much.

"One would think you liked it here," Lucius said.

"One would wish ye werena here; I'd like it better then," Walden replied.

"This isn't getting us anywhere. Do you want to hear my plan or not?" Without waiting for Walden's reply, Lucius continued. "You may or may not know that I've made a study, over the years, of all sorts of magic, not just the wand-directed variety, but other things as well. Did you know that I used to harness the energies from the Revels?"

Walden looked at him. "Ye'd have been a nutter not to," he said, sounding bored. "Everyone knew that."

"Er, did they?" Lucius was slightly taken aback, but he forged on. "At any rate. I've been practicing, er, something that I read about. It's usually called astral projection, or at least it was called that, in the book I read by this Squib, Crowley, and I believe your people used to do it."

"My people? We have the same people, Lucius, me blood's just as pure as yours…"

"No, no, no! The Celtic people, you know. The Druids," Lucius said. "Nobody's exactly sure about some of the things they did, because they didn't write them down, you know, but I did read up on the little we do know while at school." He looked very proud of himself.

"Ye paid attention in History of Magic? Ye must have been the only one," Walden said.

Ignoring the jibe, he went on. "Well, this is useful, don't you see? We can leave here without wands, without Apparating…the only trouble is, we'll appear only in other wizards' dreams. Or Muggles', I suppose, although I'd really rather not," Lucius said.

"Och, aye, of course we can," Walden said. "Ye mean ye've never done that before? I've never heard what ye called it, but ye've never done a dream journey? Me da, he told me about that when I went to school, so I could, ye know, with the lasses…" and his voice trailed off, and Lucius couldn't believe it, but the big man was actually blushing. Surprising, that, after all those times at the Revels! "I've, ye know, I've visited me wife," he finished, looking down at his hands. "Have ye visited yours?" he added, very softly.

Lucius stood up and began pacing.

"That's the problem, you see. It's that I haven't been able to visit Narcissa. Nor Draco. And I've tried every night for months. It's as if they aren't there. Or I can't reach them. I've been trying….er, an alternate idea," he said, looking at Walden, who had a very odd look on his face.

"That's because ye canna," Walden said, and he was nearly whispering.

"What? Why shouldn't I be able to visit them?" Lucius was, if truth be told, beginning to panic just a bit. Malfoys normally did not do such things. It was unbecoming.

"Because the dream journey only works if ye know where they are, laddie," Walden said, and Lucius couldn't believe the tone in his voice, as if he had the temerity to teach a Malfoy! Why, he was an uncultured Scottish brute, a Quidditch Beater, a…killer of dangerous beasts, not a Hogwarts master…or better yet, someone from Durmstrang. "Didna your Squib's book say that?"

"No, but it doesn't matter, because I know perfectly well where my own damned manor house is, Walden!"

"Aye, of course ye do, but they're not in yer manor," Walden said, and it was as if he was talking to one of his Crups or Kneazles, or worse, a house-elf.

"What. Do. You. Mean?" Lucius shouted, in his most dangerous voice, the one that usually came before a Killing Curse, and damn if he wished he didn't have his wand now, it didn't matter if he didn't hate Walden enough to kill, he'd just blast him out of his way, then.

But Walden had different ideas. He grabbed Lucius again and slammed him into the bunk, and for one weird moment Lucius almost thought they were going to kiss, but instead, the executioner's lips were against his ear, and he almost felt like he was a doomed creature, he was cold (but he was always cold these days) and he was trembling, and Walden hissed, "Keep yer voice DOWN, laddie! Havena you guessed it yet? HE has them, and I dinna know if they're even still alive!"


End file.
